


singlesticks and sweetmeats

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: schemes of snowfall [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Enjolras's Ethereal Beauty, Enjolras's Hair, Fluff, Grantaire Rants, Grantaire being Grantaire, M/M, Minor Grantaire Rant, Pining, Snow, Sparring, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, singlestick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: It is after a rowdy party arranged by Bahorel in the back room of the Musain, and everyone is starting to leave for other evening engagements, in trickles of twos and threes. Grantaire, well content to spend the night in the corner, makes no move to get up, and Enjolras glances in his direction.“Would you be agreeable to spar with me before we retire?” Enjolras says. “The night is young, after all.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: schemes of snowfall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023247
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	singlesticks and sweetmeats

It is after a rowdy party arranged by Bahorel in the back room of the Musain, and everyone is starting to leave for other evening engagements, in trickles of twos and threes. Grantaire, well content to spend the night in the corner, makes no move to get up, and Enjolras glances in his direction.

“Would you be agreeable to spar with me before we retire?” Enjolras says. “The night is young, after all.”

After the incident with the Barriere du Maine, Enjolras had been slowly, and deliberately unwound through social pressure and the judicious application of sweetmeats, like a tangled ball of string. He was now talking politely with Grantaire, and not giving him as many disapproving glances. As far as Grantaire was concerned, that was great and significant progress, and the tentative peace reached was not worth risking over something so small and simple as a sparring session.

“You presume I have anything to teach you,” Grantaire says.

“There is always something to learn,” Enjolras says primly, and he takes off his coat. Grantaire’s thoughts turn to sludge and seem to leak out of his ears. “You have your singlestick?”

“It’s only a short walk to my lodgings; I’ll be back with it in a few minutes,” Grantaire says, his tongue refusing to wrap itself around the words at the sight of Enjolras removing his cravat.

Enjolras shrugs easily, the movement ripping through his golden hair. “I will come with you.”

And Grantaire should really make excuses. His lodgings are in terrible shape, he has not cleaned and the floor would surely ruin Enjolras’ shoes, the snow is starting to fall outside and there is no need for two people to be chilled when one will do. There are any number of acceptable reasons. But instead, he nods, dumbly, and Enjolras reverses from unbuttoning to buttoning.

Grantaire scrambles to open the door for him, and has to physically prevent himself from slamming his palm to his forehead when he notices the confused look of Enjolras’ face.

Enjolras has no cap, and the snow catches in his hair, making it luminous in the darkness. They walk awkwardly together, Grantaire listing to one side, Enjolras correcting his course. He is surprised when Enjolras lingers at his doorstep, like a creature out of a folktale, or a particularly beautiful vampire. He has to invite Enjolras before he steps inside.

“I have been here before,” Enjolras says, hesitantly, as Grantaire searches for his singlestick.

“When?”

Enjolras coughs, looking uncomfortable. “After Richefeu, we had to convene to bring you back to your rooms.” He averts his eyes as Grantaire looks up at him.

“You could have left me. One way or another, I would be able to return.”

Enjolras looks disgusted at the very idea. “How could I?”

“I suppose I was a regular brute, and sang in the streets, and drew the eyes of the passerby.” Grantaire gets an idea. “Is that why you are disturbed? Because people saw you dragging me back here, and assumed that you were as wretched as me?”

“No,” Enjolras says firmly.

“You are disappointed in my failure, then,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t know why he keeps picking at old wounds, and Enjolras’ wince at his words only makes his heart drop.

“No, I—you apologized. I have forgiven you. There is nothing more to tell.” Enjolras’ eyes blaze sincerity, and his tone of voice brooks no possible argument.

Grantaire doesn’t tell Enjolras what that means to him, or that he has so many more apologies to make. Instead, he holds up the dusty singlestick, and Enjolras nods. They return to the alleys and streets behind the Musain, as a familiar ground, and one given to disturbances. In case someone spots them, they will hopefully assume a youthful brawl instead of a cause to call for police.

Grantaire looks away this time, when Enjolras removes his coat and cravat. He doesn’t trust himself to form words. He himself strips to his shirtsleeves and trousers. When he faces Enjolras and presents himself, Enjolras’ eyes are wide.

Maybe he should have given the man some warning. He is not exactly easy to look at.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Ready?”

Grantaire nods, and they start. They are on mostly even footing, and Grantaire can feel his self-consciousness slipping away with each block and dodge. If he looks ridiculous, surely Enjolras can forgive the faces he pulls, or the sweat that drips into his eyes and pools near his chest. Enjolras spars with barely an exhalation, lips pressed tight together and only the steady reddening of his face showing his exertion. He is vicious, and there is surprising strength behind his blows.

Enjolras lands the first strike, against Grantaire’s shoulder. It jars him to his bones. It will bruise tomorrow, that he knows. Enjolras furrows his brow in concern, and Grantaire waves him off.

“I am fine,” he says. “I will live.”

Enjolras still looks as though he accidentally kicked a dog, so Grantaire waves his singlestick around, trying to draw his attention back to the duel. His grip slips, and he ends up striking Enjolras squarely on the nose.

“Ow,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire drops his stick.

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras, I didn’t mean it. Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Do I need to call for a doctor?”

Enjolras laughs and his eyes cross as he tries to examine his nose through sight alone. “No, I am hardly injured. I am sure that I will be fine.” He prods the end of it and winces.

“I hurt you,” Grantaire says blankly.

Enjolras shakes his head, though he does not stop prodding his nose.

“I am good for nothing,” Grantaire says, and the words taste bitter.

“Is that what you believe? Truly?”

Grantaire clears his throat and takes an interest in his footprints. “Perhaps we should take a break. You did suffer an injury to the head.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but agrees. They sit down, heavily. Grantaire offers a handful of snow for Enjolras’ nose, but he refuses and flings the snow back at him. His skin refuses to bruise, although the cold brings a red stain to his cheeks. Grantaire fights the urge to go back into the Musain and retrieve a bottle of wine to warm them. Instead, he watches Enjolras rub warmth back into his fingers and wonders idly about what it would be like to hold Enjolras’ hands and warm them himself.

He shuts his eyes and attempts to banish the images from his mind.

“Grantaire.”

He opens his eyes. Enjolras is close. Enjolras is so very close, and Grantaire doesn’t trust himself at this point to not close the distance between them. His heart is pounding.

“What do you believe, Grantaire?”

“Belief is what he asks me!” Grantaire sputters, backing away. “We tell children to believe in spirits to keep them in their beds and away from the streets, and we tell them to hope because we have nothing to offer them but illusions of it. Hope is the blindfold we tie over our eyes when we do not wish to see the grime and muck the world delivers us. We deceive ourselves willingly in the garden of hope. We decorate our houses in its flowers and blossoms, heedless of the fact that they will inevitably wither away, leaving rot and death in its place.” Grantaire’s voice is raspy in his throat. He badly needs a drink. He is not up to his usual standards of eloquence today. “Man plays God with plants, and God toys with man in the same way. Prune the diseased branches, savor the forbidden fruit, pull up the weeds that grow where they are unwanted. It is the same with flowers as with humans. The most brilliant are those who are cut down first.”

Enjolras shakes his head, letting his hair fall loose. He is still far too close. “But we are not flowers.” He looks confused. “We are people.”

Grantaire chokes out a laugh. Of _course_ Enjolras would focus on that. “It’s a metaphor.”

Enjolras cocks his head to the side. “It’s not a very good metaphor, then, is it?”

“Evidently.” Grantaire’s mouth quivers.

“Flowers cannot hold a gun, for one.”

Grantaire buries his head in his hands. “I was trying for melancholy,” he complains to the air.

“You were trying to be an ass.” Enjolras pokes him in the rib and Grantaire dissolves into helpless giggles, falling on his side. He tries to bat Enjolras’ hands away, but he’s laughing too hard to do so. Enjolras leans weight on him, the better to pin him down with, and wriggles on the snow until it forms ridges around him and there is a Grantaire-shaped depression in the wet and cold.

Enjolras is laughing too, framed by light and snowflakes. The harsh light of the lamps chisels his features out of the stark shadow. It hurts to look at him, a sharp twist in Grantaire’s chest that he pushes aside in favor of looking his fill.

Sometimes, he takes comfort in the fact that his eyes and his mind cannot be trusted, and he pretends that he has idealized Enjolras past the point of reality. No one, he reasons with himself, could possibly be like the man he thinks Enjolras is. Surely, there is a flaw he is forgetting, some imperfection that he pushes aside in favor of rosy imaginings. Surely, Enjolras is crueler than he thinks, or less accepting. Surely, he doubts, as all men are said to do, and he has moments when his beliefs are wrong, and Grantaire is a fool for putting his complete trust and faith in the man when all men are doomed to failure.

Of course, these illusions are all shattered when he sees Enjolras in person.

Enjolras, out of breath and laughing above him, hair in wild disarray. His hands are firmly situated at Grantaire’s sides, and his breath is making little puffs in the cold air. He sits firmly on Grantaire’s hips, his knees dug into the snow.

“Betrayal,” Grantaire gasps at last. “Absolute and utter betrayal. I would not have thought you capable of it, Enjolras.”

Enjolras beams, and he looks so goddamn proud of himself. “I made you shut up.”

“I did not speak, but neither was I silent,” Grantaire says, crossing his arms. He must look a sight, lying on the ground while attempting a stern look. There is snow at the roots of his hair, and an uncomfortable rock near his left side. “It is not a true victory.”

Enjolras’ smile fades, replaced by a soft, fond look that Grantaire has never seen before. He cups Grantaire’s face and brushes his thumb across Grantaire’s lips, and he couldn’t possibly mean to, that couldn’t possibly be true.

He couldn’t possibly mean to kiss Grantaire.

But Enjolras looks so hopeful, and he’s bending over Grantaire, slowly but surely, and the snow is falling fast around them, and, and—

—And he straightens back up again, and Grantaire freezes against the urge to pull him back towards him, because Enjolras is shaking his head and muttering.

“You’re lying on the _ground_ ,” he says, as if that is the only ridiculous thing about the situation, and he definitely looks displeased at the fact that Grantaire is currently pinned underneath him.

“Pavement,” Grantaire corrects, because there are paving stones below him under the snow, and he is nothing if not pedantic.

Enjolras groans and scrubs a hand over his face, and just like that, he has a hand gripping and _twisting_ Grantaire’s collar, and he’s hauling Grantaire up like it’s nothing (he really is goddamn strong) and he’s kissing Grantaire.

He’s kissing Grantaire.

And Grantaire isn’t _doing_ anything about it.

Enjolras releases him after a few seconds, looking as distressed as Grantaire feels. “Should I not have done that?” he whispers hoarsely.

“No, no,” Grantaire says, way too loudly. He flails for words, and his feet are unsteady. “It was, um, appreciated.”

Appreciated. Like Enjolras had bought him a drink, not given him the best kiss of his life.

“Was it bad?” Enjolras says, and all the color is gone from his face.

Grantaire shakes his head hard enough to make it spin. “It was good. Very good.” What the hell was wrong with him? “Full marks for, um, technique.”

“Technique.”

“And style,” Grantaire says, like an idiot. He pats Enjolras’ shoulder.

“You are impossible.”

“I do try.”

Enjolras is shaking with mirth. “Can I kiss you again?”

Grantaire tries to keep his voice steady. “I am very much for that course of action.”

So, Enjolras does it, and Grantaire responds, and all in all, it is an extremely pleasant way to spend a few minutes.

Enjolras breaks it off eventually, and runs a hand along Grantaire’s shoulder, the one he hit earlier. He draws Grantaire’s sleeve back, revealing the beginnings of a livid spot on his skin. Grantaire tries not to flinch as Enjolras presses a soft kiss right on the bruise.

“We barely sparred,” Grantaire says, because he is out of his depth. Enjolras is still frowning at his bruise, like the force of his gaze would erase it from Grantaire’s skin.

“I did not actually want to spar with you,” Enjolras says. He is not making much sense. “I thought it best to establish a pretense in case our friends suspected something.”

“But we did spar.”

“Yes, and you hit me very lightly on the nose and panicked about it, and look where we are now.”

“I apologize, for the nose.”

“For God’s sake, Grantaire.”

“I would not do anything to mar your perfect nose, the envy of noses everywhere.”

Enjolras has picked up his singlestick, and the end hovers threateningly nearby. Grantaire decides to ease back on the teasing.

“Well, so you wished to talk to me without our friends knowing?”

“I will admit that I do not look forward to the raised eyebrows, the sharp elbows, and the endless insinuations about my virtue and yours.”

Enjolras is still examining his bruise, and Grantaire needs to distract him before he bursts into flame. He stands quickly on his toes and kisses the very tip of Enjolras’ red nose. Enjolras laughs.

“We could go inside,” Grantaire says, gesturing to the Musain. “It’s warmer.”

“Or we could go back to your rooms. They are close, after all,” Enjolras says, and there is mischief in every plane of his face.

“You planned this, didn’t you? You planned this from the beginning.”

Enjolras’ smile is wicked, and Grantaire finds he doesn’t really mind.


End file.
